


i will not ask you where you came from

by extremegraphicviolins



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abusive Parents, All Galra Characters Are Human, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Assassination Attempt(s), Developing Relationship, Horses, Human Lotor (Voltron), Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Princes & Princesses, Secret Relationship, for zarkon's treatment of lotor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-05 00:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16357133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremegraphicviolins/pseuds/extremegraphicviolins
Summary: Prince Lotor has never cared for the kingdom of Daibazaal, and the kingdom has never cared for him—long since disowned by King Zarkon for his weakness, Lotor is the laughingstock of the kingdom. When Lotor hears whispers of an attempt on his life, he knows he has no choice but to leave if he wants to survive. Having never ridden a horse in his life, leaving proves to be much more difficult than Lotor had counted on.But he also hadn't counted on meeting Keith.





	i will not ask you where you came from

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been in the works for a looooooong time as part of the [2018 Keitor Big Bang](https://keitorbigbang.tumblr.com/), and I'm so excited to finally share it! This was my first time participating in a fandom event, and it was a really fun challenge. I also was lucky enough to work with an amazing artist, YukiYamino, who created two gorgeous pieces of art for this fic. Definitely check out their other work on tumblr at [yukiyamino](http://yukiyamino.tumblr.com) and on twitter at [xYukiYaminox](https://twitter.com/xYukiYaminox)! 
> 
> I hope that you enjoy this story; it's existed in my brain for so long and I'm unbelievably excited that it's finally out in the world. 
> 
> Title is from "Like Real People Do" by Hozier.

_When Lotor was twelve years old, his father put a beautiful broadsword in his hands._

_“This is your birthright,” Zarkon had said, though Lotor did not want it—not the sword’s thin, gleaming edges, nor its cruel, pointed tip. “You are a man now. One day, this will be yours.” The sword, yes—but the kingdom, too._

_Lotor was still short and soft-faced. His voice had not yet changed._

_When Lotor was twelve, his father put that shining burden in his hands and accompanied him to the square, where a gallows had been set up._

_“That man,” Zarkon said, “has been convicted of high treason.” He looked from the stage to Lotor. “A king must preserve law and tradition in his kingdom. You are old enough now, it is time you learned that responsibility.”_

_Eyes wide, lip quivering, Lotor followed his father up to where the criminal knelt._

_Most crimes in the kingdom of Daibazaal were punishable by death, and as such, crime was a rare occurrence. Yet every so often, some wrong would be committed, and punishment would be dealt as the king saw fit._

_Zarkon addressed the crowd. “Let this man’s actions be an example to you. The Galra Empire does not take kindly to traitors.”_

_Lotor could not look away from the criminal, whose hands were bound, whose head was bowed, whose face was obscured by a dirty burlap sack._

_His father looked at him expectantly._

_Lotor knew what was being asked of him—and he knew he could not do it._

_The broadsword clattered to the ground. A tear landed next to it._

_And Lotor—caught between youth and adulthood, humanity and duty—Lotor ran._

_His father wouldn’t meet his eye after._

_“You are no son of mine,” he spat. “And you are no king.”_

_And he left Lotor alone in his chambers, still red-eyed and shaking, and he left the broadsword to Sendak, his second-in-command._

_The sword, yes—but the kingdom, too._

 

* * *

 

_Ten years later_

As Lotor packed his bag, he wondered what of the kingdom he would miss.

The food, perhaps, and the library. Those were the things that had kept him alive, after all. He already had a loaf of bread in his satchel, stolen from the kitchen and textured with the rough, hardy grains native to Daibazaal. And he had allowed himself his three favourite books from the library, for Zarkon would not miss them. ‘Victory or death’ was the dogma by which his father ruled. Not knowledge. Never knowledge.

Candlelight bounced off the walls and cast strange shadows as Lotor located the rest of the things he had prepared. A waterskin, bought from the market the week before, and hidden under his bed. A heavy, unremarkable cloak. Tall leather boots. A dagger and a matching sheath.

There were supposed to be maps, too; drawn by a cartographer from the nearest village. Lotor was supposed to leave in a few weeks’ time.

But the maps were taking too long—longer than Lotor could afford, as whispers of an assassination had spread through the palace like wildfire.

The Galra Empire operated with ruthless efficiency. Those who were not needed were often exiled or killed. Lotor knew he was of no use to his father. He knew that Zarkon would rather pay an assassin than go to the trouble of banishing his son. And he knew that unless he wanted to be found the next morning with an arrow through his heart, he had to leave that night.

He secured the cloak around his shoulders and took one last look around his bedroom.

He would not miss the kingdom and its damned walls. And he would not miss his father.

Lotor snuffed out the candle and pulled up his hood. A shadow among the darkness, he left.

The palace seemed to be asleep. Lotor walked down the stone corridor, footsteps slow and quiet so as not to be discovered. Very few people would be awake at this hour, but the palace’s servants had a more efficient network than many of the kingdom’s spies. None of them would hesitate to report Lotor’s midnight stroll to the king. A run-in with a maid would be all it took to send his plan crashing down.

And so he walked with even, measured steps, and ducked into doorways and behind pillars at the slightest sound. If food and books had been Lotor’s sustenance, then caution had been his religion. It had done as much to keep him alive as any earthly nourishment, and far more than any faith his father had tried to instill in him.

He stepped outside, into the chilly air, avoiding the light that pooled around the bases of the watchtowers.

Crawling on his belly through the damp grass, Lotor’s focus was on the probability of getting caught. He had always been too proud to pray, according to the kingdom. But in Lotor’s experience, prayer was unreliable. And if the god that his father worshiped was real—would it have not been more merciful?

 

* * *

 

_He had asked his mother, once, why she never went to worship with him and his father._

_“Why,” he had asked her, in lilting Altean, the only language he knew at the time._

_“I believe in something else, my son,” she had said. “Come.”_

_And she took his hand and led him outside, to where the stars shone hot and fierce in the sky._

_“It is called astronomy.”_

_Lotor remembered gazing at the sky, filled with wonder at having a name for the lights above him. “...Is it like church?”_

_Honerva had laughed. “No,” she said. “It is a science. A secret, here.” She smiled at the sky, as fondly as one would greet an old friend. “One day, I will teach you, if you like.”_

_“Yes,” Lotor had said, in his mother tongue. “I would like that.”_

_Honerva had died the year Lotor turned six. And Lotor had learned to speak the harsh, rolling syllables of Galran, and learned to write in its sharp, unforgiving alphabet. And he went to worship every week, and sat beside the king. And the circlet on his head might have been golden, but it was nowhere near as valued as his silence._

 

* * *

 

The stable was quiet—eerily so. Every little sound seemed magnified: the chirping of crickets, the whistle of wind outside, the muted thuds of Lotor’s footfalls, as quiet as he could possibly make them.

The horses seemed to pick up on the fact that a stranger was in the room. They began to shift around in their stalls, agitated. Lotor froze. In the silence, the slightest noise would be enough to give him away—it would be as good as a death sentence. He waited, muscles tensed for the inevitable swarm of guards. Only after several minutes, when no guards came, did Lotor let himself exhale and keep moving.

There were almost two dozen horses in the stable, from what Lotor could see in the dark. All of them were beautiful—tall and proud and strong. _But none of them were right_ , Lotor thought as he scanned the aisles. He needed the right horse, one that was fast and enduring and able to blend into the night. None of the white and tan and silvery-grey horses that were typical to Daibazaal would do.

This one, though—Lotor stopped in front of a stall, the third last one on the left side of the stable. This one would be perfect. It was lean and sleek and a deep shade of black or brown—Lotor couldn’t quite tell in the dark.

This one, the kingdom would have to do without.

Tentatively, Lotor reached out to pet the horse’s nose.

The horse bit his hand in response. Lotor jumped back, stifling a gasp. He glared at the horse, one hand still outstretched as if to fend it off, the other covering his mouth. _Quiet and still. Quiet and still._ If someone heard him…

From somewhere in the stable came a rustling, and what sounded like a horse’s snort. Almost. Lotor knew little about horses, but he knew the noises they made were never that high-pitched.

He had to leave. Soon.

Lotor crossed the stable as quickly as he dared, searching for a saddle. Reins, too; he’d seen riders use those.

He found a set of reins and a saddle that looked about the right size in a small room off to the side, along with god-only-knew-what-else. Horses, it seemed, required more equipment than Lotor had bargained for. He returned to the horse’s stall with an armful of gear. Dumping it on the floor, Lotor opened the latch on the horse’s stall and clicked his tongue, trying to call it into the open.

The horse, though, didn’t seem to want to move. It stayed in its stall, blithely swishing its tail.

Lotor sighed. He couldn’t afford to waste time trying to lure the horse out. He would have to make this work, one way or another. He strode into the stall, taking the saddle with him. That, at least, he knew what to do with.

The horse, however, had other plans.

“Come on,” Lotor muttered, after several minutes of fighting to get the saddle on. “Hold still.” The horse just whinnied and tossed its head, suspicious of Lotor and indifferent to his plight. It shook itself again, and the saddle nearly came off. “Come on, come _on—”_

Across the stable, there was a soft thud, followed by the rustling of straw. Lotor’s head whirled around. His free hand went to the dagger on his hip.

Footsteps came toward him in the darkness, quick and soft against the floor. Probably a commoner, Lotor guessed. Most of them could only afford soft-soled boots.

The steps came closer, and so did the person they belonged to. Lotor’s hand tightened around the dagger as he readied himself for ill-made threats, for reprimands lacking authority, for weak promises to alert the Royal Guard or tell the king, for—

“You’re doing that wrong.”

The voice didn’t sound hostile, but that was no reason to speak. No reason to give away the upper hand.

Lotor turned around. A sliver of light fell on the voice’s owner through the ceiling, illuminating a slice of dark hair and pale skin and curious eyes—and they were indeed curious, Lotor saw. Not angry, not threatening. Genuinely inquisitive. A rarity, in Lotor’s experience.

The man was shorter than Lotor, and looked skinny enough that Lotor could fight him easily, if need be. He didn’t have time to waste dealing with a stablehand, though. With one last glance over his shoulder, Lotor turned back to the horse, and the problem at hand. He still wasn’t sure what the tangle of leather and metal was for, but it couldn’t be that hard to figure out. It looked vaguely head-shaped, Lotor thought. If he could just—

Behind him, the stablehand laughed. “You don’t come here often, do you?” He spoke the Galran words far too carefully to be a native speaker. “If you did, you’d probably know what you were doing.”

Lotor ignored the jab and kept his back to the stablehand, trying to focus on the horse (and the seemingly endless equipment that went with it) instead.

“What are you doing here?”

Lotor turned the leather over in his hands. “That’s none of your concern,” he said sharply. The stablehand was well on his way to becoming more than a mere nuisance. He was taking up precious time, risking Lotor’s entire plan. If the stablehand didn’t leave soon… Lotor would make him leave.

“It is my concern, actually,” said the stablehand, “if you’re trying to steal a horse.”

“I’m not—”

The stablehand cut him off. “If you weren’t stealing, you’d have come here in daylight. Besides,” he said, “that isn’t even a good horse to steal.”

At this, Lotor blinked, confusion flickering across his face. But only for a second. He had to hold onto the upper hand. “I can decide that for myself,” he said, a beat too late.

“You’re trying to put the reins on the horse’s head,” the stablehand pointed out. “I don’t think you can.” He looked at Lotor, brow furrowed, those curious eyes searching. “At least— if you’re going to run away, at least do it right. At least let me help.”

Lotor nearly dropped the tangle of leather he was holding.

“What makes you think I’m running away?” he asked, turning around.

“You don’t look like someone who’d steal a horse to sell it,” replied the stablehand. “Your clothes seem too nice for that.” He strode over to Lotor and took the leather from his hands, and in his surprise, Lotor let him. “Now, where are you going?”

For once, Lotor spoke without thinking. “Far away,” he said. “It doesn’t matter where.”

The stablehand nodded. “Come with me.”

Lotor hesitated. He knew he had no reason to trust the stablehand, save for his own desperation. Keeping the world at an arm’s length would keep him alive, as it always had. But he truly was desperate, and that seemed to outweigh everything else. And there was something about the stablehand, too—something honest, something blunt. He didn’t speak in riddles, like so many of the people Lotor knew. Trusting the stablehand was Lotor’s best option—and perhaps it wasn’t the worst idea in the world.

“Do you know how to ride?” the stablehand asked, shutting the gate on the dark horse’s stall and motioning for Lotor to follow him to the stall of a stocky grey horse.

Lotor shook his head.

“Thought so,” the stablehand said. “You’ll just have to hold on, then.”

_...Hold on?_

“I… I can manage on my own, thank you.”  
“As tempting as it is to let you try to figure this out by yourself, I’m not going to. So either hold on,” the stablehand said, adjusting the final strap on the horse’s tack, “or stay here.”

It wasn’t much of a choice. Uncertainty lay ahead of him, but certain death lay behind if he stayed.

“Very well,” Lotor said. “Lead the way.”

And so he followed the stablehand outside with the horse, and let the stablehand help him onto its back. The horse swayed underneath him. Suddenly, the ground seemed very far, and Lotor remembered that he was putting his trust in a creature—and a man—he did not know.

“What's your name?” Lotor asked as the stablehand swung a leg over the horse and sat down in front of him.

The stablehand adjusted the reins and gave Lotor a crooked smile over his shoulder. “Call me Keith, Your Highness.”

Lotor jolted at hearing his title. It was seldom used as anything but a joke—everyone knew he would never inherit the throne. But coming from Keith, it was not a sign of derision, but of recognition.

 _He knows. He knows who I am._ Knew all along, perhaps.

Lotor was so deep in thought that he nearly missed Keith saying, “Hold on,” and almost fell from the horse as Keith urged it into a trot, over the field, and through the back gates of the palace grounds.

“Are you all right?” Keith asked when they had left the kingdom. It had been several minutes since Lotor had nearly fallen, and he still clung to Keith's waist with an iron grip. “I can slow down.”

“No,” Lotor said through his chattering teeth, though he wanted nothing more than to have both feet planted firmly on the ground. The speed of the horse and the cold wind whipping through his hair and clothes made him feel strangely vulnerable. “Keep going.”

And so Keith did.

It was a clear night. No clouds hid the stars from view, and as they crossed the empty plain, leaving Daibazaal far behind them, Lotor looked up.

 

* * *

 

_“Constellations.”_

_“Conslations.”_

_Honerva laughed. “Not quite,” she said. “Try again. Constellations.”_

_“Con-stell-a-tions,” Lotor repeated, smiling triumphantly when his mother nodded._

_They were sitting on the roof of the tower. It was one of Lotor’s favourite nights: his mother had let him stay up late to look at the stars._

_“Do you see that one?” she asked, pointing. “That very bright star?” Lotor nodded. “In Altea, we called it Tsael. It’s part of a constellation called the White Lion.”_

_Lotor looked at the sky, wide-eyed. “Are there more?”_

_Honerva nodded. “Many more.” And she pointed the constellations out and told him their names, more names than Lotor could possibly remember._

_“Do not worry,” she said, seeing Lotor’s overwhelmed expression. “Their names are in a book, so they will not be forgotten.”_

_“Okay.” Lotor yawned, scooting over to his mother and leaning his head on her shoulder. The stars were beautiful, so beautiful that Lotor kept his eyes open for as long as he could._

_“Let’s get you to bed,” Honerva said, as she noticed how close he was to falling asleep. “It’s almost midnight.”_

_And so they went inside, hand in hand, and Honerva knelt beside his bed and pulled the blankets up to his chin and pressed a kiss to his forehead._

_“If ever you are lost,” she murmured, “the stars will guide you home.”_

_It had been a reassurance that night, and it had been a reassurance years later, when Lotor snuck into the library at midnight and cracked open the book of constellations in secret. It had been a reassurance while he committed the stars’ shapes to memory at the age of thirteen, just in case he found himself exiled._

_But years later, when he found himself on the back of a horse on a cold, clear night, he wished that just this once, the stars might let him get lost._

 

* * *

 

They reached a small wood just as the moon was beginning its descent. The sky grew lighter, and the stars were beginning to fade, leaving them in the strange liminal space between morning and night.

Keith slowed the horse to a stop and slid off its back. “We’ll walk from here,” he said, and held out a hand to Lotor, who clumsily dismounted the horse.

“Where are we?”

“A place my father would take me when I was a young,” Keith said. “It used to be no-man’s-land, but not anymore.”

Lotor was well aware of Zarkon’s insatiable need to expand his territory. They were still on Galra land, he realized with a sinking feeling. Of course they were. To leave—to _truly_ leave—would take days of riding, at the very least. “Is the area occupied?”

Keith shook his head, tying the horse to a tree. “It shouldn’t be. I come here to fish every week, and there’s never been anyone here.”

“Good,” said Lotor, following Keith into the trees. “I do not wish to be found.”

“That’s the impression I got.” Keith pushed through a thicket of branches, holding the brambles out of the way for Lotor. Together, they stepped into a clearing.

The dark still lingered, but Lotor could make out a pond, clear and blue and fed by a burbling brook. The grass underfoot was lush and damp with the beginnings of morning dew. Delicate purple wildflowers sprung up in clusters at the bases of trees. Lotor had never seen anything like this inside the palace walls—had never seen such beauty in the raw chaos of nature. It was perfect. Untouched by Galra hands.

“We’ll camp out here for a few hours,” Keith said. “Are you tired?”

Lotor shook his head. He could not afford to be tired. “I can help you keep watch.”

“Not much to watch for but the odd deer,” Keith said, sitting down. “But you can if you like.”

And so Lotor took off his satchel and joined Keith in the damp grass, and listened to the first birds calling out as the sun got ready to rise.

It was a strange, precarious peace shared between two strangers, as unfamiliar to Lotor as the woods around him. Here, for now, Zarkon had no control over him; would not find him. He was safer in the unfamiliar woods than he had been at the palace for quite some time.

And yet—he could not help but tense up at the sound of leaves rustling under rabbits’ feet; could not help startling slightly at the snap of a branch or the call of a bird. He had long ago taught himself constant vigilance, and it would be impossible to unlearn. Foolish, too—for a false sense of security was as good as a death sentence.

“You’re jumpy,” Keith said eventually, looking up from the long blades of grass that he had been braiding. “What are you waiting for?”

“An answer in exchange for an answer,” Lotor said. “Why are you helping me?”

Keith averted his eyes. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t say.”

Keith sighed. “Can’t deny that I’m curious,” he said, “but I suppose that’s fair.”

Acceptance was a rare gift.

“Thank you,” Lotor murmured. It was under his breath. He wasn’t sure if Keith heard him.

A beat passed. And then, so quietly Lotor nearly missed it:

“Of course.”

Acknowledgement given, Keith went back to braiding the grass, weaving in more and more blades to form a long rope of green.

And Lotor went back to watching the treeline, waiting for the Royal Guard to materialize and drag him off to be executed. Sitting still was torture: every minute he spent not distancing himself from Daibazaal was a minute wasted. But his survival depended on trusting Keith, and so he stayed, running his plan over and over in his mind until it was worn and smooth as a the rocks in the brook.

The holes in his plan were becoming more and more apparent, like a hole in the bottom of a barrel that only became obvious when half the water was gone. Lotor knew how to navigate; he knew how to hunt and forage. He knew how to kill, if need be. Survival itself was not an issue. But thrown into the harsh climate of an unfamiliar place, it would be. Without a horse, he would be far too vulnerable.

Lotor was beginning to realize that he had overlooked something critical: a horse was no use if he didn’t know how to ride it.

And it was then that he knew he didn’t have a choice. Not really.

So he drew his knees to his chest and watched the sunrise—the first and only one he had seen as a free man—and he savoured it. And when Keith stood and said, “Where to?”, he replied, “The palace,” even though every bone in his body was screaming out not to.

“I did not think you would wish to return,” Keith said as he spurred the horse on into the early morning light.

“I don’t,” said Lotor, wrapping his arms around Keith’s waist. “But I do not think I am ready to go.”

 

* * *

 

They returned some hours later, in the bitter light of early morning. Lotor crept into his chambers, light-footed, knife drawn, ready to strike. He checked for assassins, for rogues, for monsters hiding under his bed or in his wooden armoire.

But there were none. The room was empty.

Empty—save for the arrow lodged into the wall above his bed.

 

* * *

 

_“...in truth, I do not know why I keep him around.”_

_As he passed the slightly-ajar door to Zarkon’s study, Lotor had recognized his father’s voice. Gravelly and grim, probably referring to a member of the impotent council, or an especially useless ally._

_A nervous laugh. “Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh, sire?”_

_“Not in the slightest,” Zarkon had replied._

_And it was not a surprise to hear, for even then, at fourteen, Lotor knew that the Galra Empire did away ruthlessly with those who were not needed, especially when they occupied positions of power. This was but a chilling reminder._

_Zarkon’s voice lowered. Lotor pressed his back to the wall, straining to listen._

_“...should have had him killed years ago,” Zarkon said. “He is lucky to be alive.”_

_“Sire,” said the other voice, full of trepidation and perhaps disbelief. “He is your son. Surely you cannot be serious—”_

_That was all Lotor needed to hear. Eyes wide and glassy, hand over his mouth, he fled to his chambers and locked the door. For the first time in his short life, he felt the need to check his surroundings; felt the need to make sure he was alone._

_He had known since he was twelve years old that he was useless to his father, never to ascend the throne or any other meaningful position. Whispers of his weakness were as common in the kingdom as ravens after a hanging._ He’s too soft, _they said._ It’s the Altean blood.

_But at the age of fourteen, he learned that he was useless enough to be killed._

_That night, he stole his first knife from the kitchen and kept it under his pillow, fingers curled around the handle, knuckles white._

_He did not sleep._

 

* * *

 

Lotor made himself scarce after seeing the arrow shot into his bedroom wall, for it might have been uncommon for assassins to strike during daylight, but it was not unheard of. He kept to his chambers, kept an eye on the door and a hand on his knife. He didn’t let himself fall asleep, no matter how much his body called out for it after being alert far too long. He could not afford to let his guard down.

He still did not sleep when the sun went down. Instead, he stole away to the roof—the same roof Honerva had taken him to as a child. He knew it would be empty. The Galra had little use for looking at stars.

As he sat on the flat roof of the high tower, knife still in hand, Lotor let himself wonder about Altea. Would he have been given a real childhood there, and a real education? Would he have inherited the throne? Or would he have been allowed to follow in his mother’s footsteps and immerse himself in the sciences?

It filled Lotor with a strange sort of sadness to realize he knew so little about his mother, about her people, about half the blood that flowed through his body. So much of Honerva’s memory had been lost to time and the fickleness of his five-year-old mind. Yet those hazy memories were all Lotor had left of her, for no one had spoken his mother’s name in years. Her memory had died with her.

In Altea, Lotor wondered, would he have been allowed riding lessons? In Daibazaal, the climate and terrain made horses a rarity. They were reserved for the richest nobles, the fiercest warriors, the most fearsome monarchs. Everyone else simply walked—including Lotor, for he was none of those things. He was of no use to his father, and the entire kingdom knew it by the calloused soles of his feet.

Now, though, it was not status that hinged on his ability to ride, but survival. He had to get out of the kingdom—and soon. But that would be no easy feat. No one who knew how to ride would think about teaching a disowned, dishonoured prince.

_Except…_

Hope was a foolish thing to have. Lotor clung to it anyway, and waited for morning to come.

 

* * *

 

He intercepted Keith outside the stable the next day.

“Your Highness.” Keith’s hand tightened around the lead attached to the horse beside.

“May I speak with you?” Lotor asked. “In private. I—” He paused, unsure how to ask the question on his tongue. “I have a favour to ask of you.”

Keith simply nodded and untied the horse’s lead, letting it trot away into the pasture. “Come with me.”

Daylight came with a certain scrutiny. Keith’s movements were stiffer, more formal, as Lotor followed him to the stable. It was almost hard to believe that only nights ago, he had relished in defying the kingdom; had stolen a horse with a smile on his face; had aided and abetted a runaway prince. Daylight changed people, Lotor knew.

Keith’s posture relaxed once they were inside the shade of the stable. “What is it?” he asked, leaning against the gate of an empty stall.

“You’re a very skilled rider,” Lotor said. “I was hoping that you are as skilled a teacher.”

“Oh?” Curiosity flickered across Keith’s face. “Why?”

“Riding was… exhilarating,” Lotor said. In fact, it was terrifying. But he didn’t need to admit that. “I should like to learn how.”

It was a half-truth—certainly not the truth Keith was looking for—but he accepted it nonetheless.

“I’ll teach you,” Keith said, “if you make it worth my while.”

Lotor reached into the pocket of his trousers. “Of course.” The bag of coins in his hand held most of his savings. He was loath to spend it all on this, but if that was what it took to leave Daibazaal in one piece, so be it. “When can we start?”

Keith took the pouch of gold coins from Lotor’s outstretched hand, and for a moment, seemed taken aback by its weight. “Tomorrow?” he asked, and held out his hand.

“Tomorrow,” Lotor agreed, and shook.

 

* * *

 

The horse was much taller than Lotor remembered it being.

“This is Ilma,” Keith told him, petting the honey-coloured horse’s neck. “None of the knights want her, so you get to learn on her. You can come closer,” Keith added, seeing that Lotor was hadn’t moved from where he stood several feet away. “She won’t bite.”

“All right,” Lotor said, and hesitantly reached out. He still remembered vividly the dark horse that had bitten him only nights earlier. Ilma let out a soft puff of air and tossed her head when Lotor’s fingers brushed over her nose, but she made no move to bite him. Lotor petted the horse again, and felt a tiny bit of the tension between his shoulders dissipate.

“Now come on,” Keith said. “You wanted riding lessons, not a petting zoo. I’ll show you how to get on.”

Lotor followed Keith around to the horse’s side. “Put your foot here,” Keith said, pointing at the stirrup, and Lotor did. His foot wobbled in the loop of leather, and for a moment, Lotor froze, beginning to doubt the entire endeavour.

“Swing your leg over,” Keith urged.

“Won’t I fall?” Lotor asked.

“Only if you stay like you are,” Keith replied. “Just swing your leg up and get on.”

So Lotor steeled himself and swung his weight over the back of the horse, landing in the saddle perhaps a bit too suddenly. The horse, seemingly unbothered, swayed underneath him, and on instinct, Lotor’s legs tightened around its torso, trying to stabilize himself.

It was the wrong thing to do—Ilma started to move, and Lotor’s stomach dropped. It struck him at once just how far he was above the ground, but there was nothing to do but wrap his arms around Ilma’s neck and hope.

“Whoa!” Keith called, jogging to catch up with Ilma and slow her down. “Whoa, girl.” Keith put a hand on Ilma’s neck, and the horse slowed to a stop. He looked at Lotor. “Are you all right?”

Lotor nodded, still shaky from the sudden movement. “I… yes. Let’s continue.”

“Are you sure?”

Lotor nodded again, more resolutely. “Yes. I am certain.” And he was certain, for he had no other choice. “Why did she start galloping so suddenly?”

Keith laughed. “She wasn’t galloping,” he said. “That was a just a trot. And it wasn’t sudden; Ilma is pretty tame. She must have started moving because you squeezed your legs, Your Highness.”

“Oh.” Lotor supposed that made sense. But how could that pace have only been a trot? “Could we start with something a bit… slower?”

“If you wish,” Keith said, and took hold of the reins, leading Ilma around the corral at a leisurely walk. “You’ll need to get used to a faster pace eventually, though.”

And to Lotor’s surprise, Keith said nothing more on the subject. Keith was matter-of-fact but not malicious, and to Lotor, the sensation was entirely new.

“There's no need to call me ‘Your Highness’, by the way,” Lotor said after some time. The slight sway of Ilma’s movements was an entirely new sensation as well, but Lotor had grown more used to it, and he relaxed into the saddle.

“Oh?” Keith said, looking over his shoulder. “Why is that?”

Lotor shrugged. “No one else does.”

At this, Keith’s eyes narrowed. “They don’t?”

“No,” Lotor said. “They haven’t in years.” He had long since learned not to let it bother him.  

But Keith’s expression hardened, and in that moment, there was something in his violet eyes that Lotor could not name. “They should.”

 

* * *

 

Lotor woke the next morning to pale sunlight streaming through the windows, and cursed himself for falling asleep. By the look of the sky, he knew he hadn’t slept more than a few hours. Drowsiness tugged at him still, but sleep was one of a great many things Lotor could not afford. He sat up, swinging his booted feet onto the floor, and made sure his dagger was still in its sheath, affixed to his hip.

There were no such thing as idle days for him. Not when there were books to study, maps to commit to memory, preparations to make. And—Lotor ignored the ache that radiated through his thighs with every step—there were riding lessons to attend.

“You’re here,” Keith said when Lotor arrived at the stable shortly after sunrise.

“Of course I am,” Lotor replied. “Why is that such a surprise?”

“Aren’t you sore?” Keith asked. “Most people are, after their first time riding.”

He was, but he waved off Keith’s concern. “It is no matter. Shall we continue where we left off?”

“If you want to, yes,” Keith said. “Forgive my surprise, I only… I didn’t think you would wish to ride more than thrice a week. At least, not at first.”

“I do wish to.”

“Stubborn” Keith said, with a twinge of a smile. “Come with me, then. Ilma will be glad to see you.”

And she was, swishing her tail contentedly as Keith showed Lotor how to put on the saddle and bridle and reins, and showed him where Ilma liked to be petted behind her ears.

“This is not as difficult as I first thought,” Lotor remarked, fastening the final buckle on the horse’s tack.

“It only takes practice,” Keith replied. “And it works much better when you aren’t trying to put the tack on completely backwards.”

Lotor did not know what to do with that crooked smile, or that gentle teasing. He knew, though, that his life was dependent on a horse, and so he followed Keith and Ilma out of the stable and into the field.

The muscles in Lotor’s legs protested when he stepped into the stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle. He did his best not to let it show with each bumpy step Ilma took around the corral.

Keith guided Ilma into a slow walk, and Lotor was grateful. The feeling of being on a horse was still foreign, and he still held tightly to the reins even though Keith was the one steering the horse. And no matter how slowly the horse moved, Lotor’s legs still ached with every movement. He pushed the pain to the back of his mind.

It was almost soothing to ride in slow circles around the corral. Lotor got so used to the feeling of it that he didn’t notice Keith had let go of the horse’s lead until several minutes later.

“You’re doing fine,” Keith said. “Just keep calm and don’t make any sudden moves.” Keith’s voice was steady, incongruous to the half-formed panic welling up in Lotor’s chest. “Just like that—pull a little on the reins when you want her to turn.”

Lotor did as they approached the corner of the corral, only pulling as hard as he dared, hoping that Ilma would not take off or throw him to the ground. He held his breath—and released it, as Ilma rounded the corner smoothly, still moving at a leisurely walk.

It was a small accomplishment—one that anyone else would look down upon, for riding a horse should not have been a novelty to a prince—but it was an accomplishment nonetheless. Lotor let himself revel in the feeling and the gentle warmth of the sun, if only for a moment.

Keith looked at him over his shoulder. “You did it,” he said.

“I— yes,” Lotor said, and let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “I suppose I did.”

“I knew you could,” Keith replied with the smallest smile, and walked beside Lotor and Ilma until the morning’s warmth became the relentless heat of afternoon, beating down onto Lotor’s shoulders and making Keith’s hair shine like obsidian in the sun.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, three sharp raps came at the door, followed by an even sharper voice. “Prince Lotor!”

Lotor awoke with a start, rolling off his bed and landing on his feet, hand moving automatically to the knife on his hip. He had no idea how long he’d slept, only that it was not nearly long enough.

“Who’s there?”

No answer came.

Assassins, Lotor knew, were stubborn. It was highly unlikely that they had given up their cause after only a few weeks. Whoever was at his door could be armed, with a spear or a blade or a delicacy laced with poison.

But Lotor also knew that assassins would sooner die than announce their presence. Whoever was at his door, they were likely not there to kill him.

Knife still in hand, muscles wound tight like a spring, Lotor pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped back.

A bored-looking servant stood in the threshold, and thrust a piece of parchment at him. “King Zarkon has requested this be delivered to you,” she said.

Lotor took the paper from her, Zarkon’s violet wax seal weighing heavy in his hand. “Is that all?”

The servant gave a curt nod and spun on her heel, leaving Lotor once again alone in his chambers. He gave the corridor a quick glance, then retreated, latching the door behind him.

The parchment was thin and leaflike in Lotor’s hands. Careful not to tear the letter, he pried the wax seal off. The Galran words were not written in Zarkon’s hand, but in the familiar slanting hand of his scribe. Faintly, Lotor realized that in his twenty-two years, he had yet to see his own father’s handwriting. He wasn’t sure how that made him feel. He wasn’t sure why it made him feel anything.

He was sure, though, how the letter’s contents made him feel. He read the letter once, then again to ensure his eyes were not deceiving him, then another time, because it was almost too strange to be believed.

It was, of all things, a dinner invitation. Lotor laughed at the sheer strangeness of it all, for his father had not wished to dine with him in years. And yet, here Zarkon was, requesting Lotor’s presence in the banquet hall in two days’ time.

Lotor’s laughter died out as the letter’s words sunk in. He knew a threat when he saw one. For after all, if he didn’t, he would have been long dead.

Sleep did not come easily, after that. It rarely came at all. So Lotor greeted his insomnia like the old friend it was, and filled the nighttime hours with other pursuits—stealing bread from the kitchen, stealing the occasional weapon from the armory, stealing maps from the library. He might have been a prince, but he was not too proud to resort to thievery.

“You’re quiet today,” Keith remarked two days later from his place beside Ilma.

“Hm?”

“I said, you’re quiet today. Are you all right?”

Lotor blinked. “Yes,” he said a beat too late. “Let’s continue with the lesson.”

Keith gave him a look but did not argue as Lotor urged Ilma into a trot, then into a canter. It was the fastest Lotor had gone on Ilma since the lessons began a fortnight earlier. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he should slow down. But Zarkon’s dinner invitation hovered in the back of his mind, too, and it urged him on faster, for the sooner he could properly ride, the sooner he could leave Daibazaal alive and hopefully in one piece.

Ilma picked up her pace. Lotor felt the thump of her hooves on the ground throughout his entire body, reverberating deep in his bones like thunder.

“Your Highness,” Keith said, his easy jog turning into a run. “Perhaps you should slow down.” But Keith’s voice was strange and dreamlike and muted, echoing almost as if Lotor was hearing him from underwater. The ground, when Lotor looked down, seemed to undulate. Lotor shook his head and tried to blink it away. He was… fine. He was fine.

The midday sun was directly overhead, too bright for Lotor’s tired eyes. If he could only close them for a moment…

Lotor felt it when his balance began to tip. He felt it when he began to slide, and then topple, out of the saddle and toward the ground. It was a short distance to fall. Distantly, Lotor wondered why it seemed to last so long.

He heard a shout, and a distressed whinny, and then a shooting pain, and an impact that spread through his body as rapidly as flame spread through oil.

And then, there was nothing.

 

* * *

 

Lotor did not know how long he drifted. It was like a fog, one that he faded in and out of as if he were a ghost.

Every so often, he would catch some snippet of sensation—a pair of hands whose skin was rough but whose touch was gentle, a cool cloth moving across his forehead, a voice that he knew but could not place—that would weave itself into an incomplete picture of where he was, of who was with him.

Once, in the haze, he opened his eyes and saw wooden walls, illuminated by the moonlight spilling through the window, and a man in the darkness, slumped in a rocking chair.

He felt the man’s eyes on him, rising from his chair, watching him all the while. Lotor waited, still and silent as a corpse, for the man to do something—plunge a knife through Lotor’s heart, perhaps—yet the man did no such thing.

“You’re awake,” said the man, and his voice was soft. Lotor flinched back. This was not the fate he had expected upon waking up in a strange place. The man crossed the room. Lotor heard a dull clink, and a splash, and then footsteps as the man drew closer to where Lotor lay. “Here,” said the man, and he put a wooden cup in Lotor’s hands. “Will you drink this?” He seemed to sense Lotor’s hesitation, and added, “It’s just water. I boiled it; it’s clean.”

Lotor sipped from the cup until it was empty, the water cool and soothing on his throat. Wordlessly, he handed the cup back to the man.

“Go back to sleep,” said the man, and he pulled a soft quilt over Lotor. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

He closed his eyes and let himself drift back into the fog.

 

* * *

 

Lotor woke to a throbbing head, a groggy mind, and the low hum of a lullaby. He didn’t recognize the song, but it was soft and sweet, and it seeped into the remnants of his dreams. He yawned and rolled onto his side. The bed was so soft, the quilt so warm. Lotor burrowed further under the covers, curling his legs up, making himself small. Sleep, after going so long without it, felt unspeakably good.

“Your Highness,” came a voice, driving itself into Lotor’s sleepy consciousness like a wedge. “Are you awake?”

The lullaby had stopped, Lotor realized.

“Your Highness,” said the same voice, rough like sand and soft as a sigh. He knew that voice.

“I’ve told you,” Lotor half-yawned, sitting up on his elbows and taking in Keith, who sat across the room in a wooden chair, coaxing a wolf out of a block of wood with a carving knife, “there’s no need to call me ‘Your Highness’.”

Keith shrugged, and set down the half-carved block of wood. “Old habit. How do you feel?”

Lotor rubbed at where his head hurt the most, grimacing when his fingers passed over a raised bump. “I have certainly felt better,” he said. “What… what happened, exactly?”

“You don’t remember?”

Lotor shook his head. “Not very much.”

Keith rose from his chair. “You fell from Ilma,” he said, pouring water from a pitcher into a wooden cup and offering it to Lotor. “You were unconscious when you landed, but I think it’s possible that you were unconscious before that. I think it’s why you fell. I didn’t know where else to take you, so… I brought you here.”

Here, to a tiny wooden cabin. Here, to a single room with a bed and a table and a stone hearth. Here, away from prying Galra eyes.

Here, to safety.

“Is… is this your home?”

Keith nodded. “Yes. It isn’t much, but—”

“Thank you,” Lotor said. “Truly. I— you saved my life.”

Keith smiled ruefully. “I don’t know about that. You’re stubborn. Too stubborn for death, I think.”

Lotor laughed in surprise. “Perhaps,” he said. “That would certainly explain much about my life.”

Keith looked at him, and Lotor could not read his expression. Then Lotor’s stomach growled, loudly, breaking the silence.

“I hope you like bread and cheese,” Keith said, “because that’s all I have right now.”

All Keith had. “You needn’t go to the trouble,” Lotor said quickly. “What about yourself—”

“It’s no trouble,” Keith replied, and set a slice of bread with soft white cheese spread on it in front of Lotor. “And don’t worry about me. I just haven’t had the chance to go to the market as of late.”

Lotor looked at the bread, and then at Keith. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely,” Keith said, and so Lotor began to eat, surprised at how hungry he was. “After all, you’ve been asleep for almost two days. I imagine you’re quite hungry—”

Lotor’s eyes went wide, and he swallowed his mouthful of food. “Two days?” he asked, dread creeping into his stomach. “I was asleep that long?”

“Nearly,” Keith said. “You needed the rest, I think.” He gave Lotor another look. “How much had you been sleeping before you fell?”

“It’s of no importance,” Lotor said, and pushed the blankets off his lap.  “What day is it?”

“Two days since you hit your head.”

“Oh, no.” Lotor swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up—perhaps too quickly, for how the blood rushed from his head, making him dizzy. Spots clouded his vision, and he clung to the bedpost, waiting for them to subside. It seemed to take forever, but Lotor knew he was already two days too late. He had already missed Zarkon’s banquet. The damage was done. “I’m sorry, truly, but I must go. Zarkon will be asking after me, if he isn’t already; I— I must go.”

“Lotor,” Keith called after him, hand reaching out and fingers brushing Lotor’s wrist. “Wait, what— what is wrong?”

Lotor paused in the threshold. “I will tell you,” he said, “soon. I promise.”

A beat passed. “Very well,” Keith finally said. “Be careful.”

And it was the warning that gave it away—that perhaps Keith knew more about Lotor’s life than he let on.

“I will.” Lotor turned to go. “Thank you,” he said, “for everything.”

“Of course.”

Lotor left for the castle. He did not want to think about what might be waiting for him when he arrived. So instead, he thought of the lullaby Keith had hummed—old and soothing and foreign. It was not a byproduct of Daibazaal, or the Galra Empire. It was, like Keith, an unknown. And Lotor trusted it—but he could not say why.

 

* * *

 

Three sharp raps. Lotor had to knock hard to be heard through the solid oak door. His knuckles stung. He wished that he was anywhere but knocking on the door to Zarkon’s chambers—wished he was in another town, wished he was in another kingdom, wished he was still with Keith—

“Enter,” came Zarkon’s voice, muffled by the door but still rough and booming. Lotor inhaled and put his hand on the door handle. _Put up a front of weakness. Do not let him see your strength. Lie like your life depends on it—because it just may._

Lotor exhaled and pushed the door open, stepping inside before Zarkon could grow impatient and bellow again.

Lotor passed through the empty sitting room. He passed by Zarkon’s bedroom door, which was closed as always. Light spilled into the corridor from the study, as did the scritching sound of a quill on paper.

“I see that you finally saw fit to show your face,” Zarkon remarked when he turned in his chair to see Lotor standing in the threshold of the study. “Where were you on the night of the banquet, you ungrateful brat?”

“I fell ill.”

“Did you not think to send a messenger?”

“I couldn’t, father,” Lotor replied. “I was bed-bound for several days.”

“I don’t appreciate your insolence.”

“I am sorry.” Lotor bowed his head. He hated the farce of weakness, but what alternative was there? He had long since given up trying to find one. “May I ask what the occasion of the banquet was?”

Zarkon carried on as if he hadn’t heard. “You have been very scarce as of late. More so than usual. It is almost as if you don’t live here, for how seldom our paths cross.”

Lotor’s heart gave a jolt in his chest. “I have been reading,” he said, hoping his voice did not betray the very real fear that was taking root. For there was a difference between feigning weakness and feeling it. Zarkon couldn’t know of the riding lessons, of Lotor’s plans. “I know that you do not frequent the library.”

Zarkon’s eyes bore into him, and for a moment, Lotor was sure he could see right through him. But Zarkon only turned to make another mark on his battle plans.

“I suppose it hardly matters where you’ve been,” Zarkon said dismissively, and made another mark on his map, selecting the next kingdom to be conquered by the Galra. “Though you would do well to make yourself less scarce. There will be another banquet in two weeks’ time, with the Olkari royal family. I hope to seal an alliance with them. And I should like to see you there.”

It wasn’t an invitation.

“I will have some armour sent for you to wear,” Zarkon added. “Our allies need not know that the prince is an Altean weakling.”

The insult stung, though not as fiercely as it once had. For how often Zarkon mocked Lotor’s mixed blood, one would almost think he had forgotten about the many Galra he could have married—sons of renowned generals, daughters of wealthy merchants, nobles whose families held political sway. It had been his choice to ask Honerva for her hand. He had loved her, once—or so Lotor had heard. Any traces of that love had long since vanished by the time Lotor was old enough to remember.

“Is that all?”

“You are dismissed.”

And so Lotor left, as quietly as he came.

 

* * *

 

“No,” Keith said, when Lotor came by the stables the next day. “You’re not getting back on Ilma yet. It’s barely been four days since you fell.”

“It’s been four days,” Lotor argued. “I feel well enough.”

“That may be,” Keith said, “but you need time to heal properly. We will continue riding next week.”

“Oh,” Lotor said, and at once hated how disappointed he sounded. It was only a week, after all. But the time he spent with Keith, Lotor was realizing, had become bright spots in his otherwise dull days. A week suddenly seemed like a very long time. “I shall come back in a week, then.”

“All right,” Keith said. “Unless… unless you want to stay?” Lotor paused in his tracks. Keith’s face was tinged with pink, though it was barely midmorning and the air was still crisp and cool.

“I’d like that,” Lotor said. “Very much.”

Keith started toward the stable. “Ilma will be glad to see you. She tends to get lonely.”

Lotor fell into step beside Keith. “Does she? I have never heard of a lonely horse.”

“Well, now you have,” said Keith with a crooked smile. “Come on, I’ll show you how to groom her.”

They spent the morning together, Keith showing Lotor how to brush Ilma’s coat, how to comb the snarls out of her mane and pull the burrs out of her tail.

“Do you know how to braid?” Keith asked when Ilma’s coat was smooth and shiny. Lotor shook his head. “Really? With hair like yours?”

“No one ever taught me,” Lotor said. “I’ve always worn my hair loose.”

“I’ve noticed,” Keith said. “And I’m about to change your life.”

He stood behind Lotor, and slightly off to the side. “Split her mane into three sections,” he said. “Good, just like that. Now move the right section over the one in the centre. Now do the same with the left, and—” Keith paused, looking at Lotor’s work. “Not bad,” he said. “It’s a bit loose, though. Here.” Keith’s hands—smaller, rougher, nimbler—covered Lotor’s own, guiding them. Even in the shade of the stable, Lotor noticed, Keith ran so warm.

“You just need to pull tighter on this strand,” Keith said, fingers tapping against the back of Lotor’s hand.

“Like this?”

“Yes,” Keith said. “Just like that.”

When they finished braiding Ilma’s mane, Lotor tied it off with a yellow ribbon. He stepped back to admire his and Keith’s work. “It’s so neat,” Lotor said, and touched  the ends of his own long hair. “Why did I never learn this?”

Keith grinned. “I told you I was going to change your life.”

“There was never any doubt in my mind.”

“We should braid her tail, too,” Keith said. He pulled a second yellow ribbon from the pocket of his pants. “Would you like to do the honours?”

Lotor took the ribbon and got to work.

 

* * *

 

Lotor returned to the stable the next day, and Keith showed him how to clean and polish tack. The day after that, he and Keith brushed Ilma’s coat until it shone. And the day after that, Lotor arrived with his hair in a clumsy attempt at a braid.

“It’s harder to do it on myself,” he said when he caught Keith looking.

The horses were forgotten that morning, if only for a moment. Keith’s deft fingers combed through Lotor’s hair, weaving it into a long braid and tying it off with a ribbon.

“There,” Keith said. “Much better.” His mouth twinged up in a smile. “You and Ilma match.”

Lotor glanced over and saw Ilma eating straw off the stable floor. A few pieces dangled lazily from the corner of her mouth. Lotor laughed. “You wound me, Keith.”

“My apologies,” Keith said, but the mischievous gleam in his eyes said he wasn’t sorry at all.

Lotor didn’t mind in the slightest.

The rest of the week passed in a similar way. Lotor worked alongside Keith in the stable, following his directions and learning something new at every turn.

“Thank you for this,” Lotor said one afternoon. “For still taking the time even after my injury slowed us down.”

“There is so much more to learn about horses than how to ride them. It would be a disservice not to teach you. And,” Keith said, “I daresay you’re ready to continue riding tomorrow, if you wish.”

“You think so?”

“Well, you’re more healed than you were a week ago,” Keith said. “Although I cannot say for certain. I am no doctor, after all.”  
“It’s all right,” Lotor said. “I’ll be all right. I… I trust you.”

They worked in comfortable silence, grooming the other horses in the stable. A question was on the tip of Lotor’s tongue, but he bit it back until he couldn’t any longer.

“Why did you do it?”

Keith looked up. “Do what?”

“After I fell,” Lotor said, “you saved my life. And I keep thinking and thinking about it, but… I have yet to figure out why.”

“I don’t think you were in any danger of dying,” Keith said. He looked down. “But even so, I wanted to ensure you were safe. Ilma would be saddened by your death.”

“Oh.” That was really it, then.

“...And so would I.”

Oh.

Lotor didn’t know what to do with that. So he bid Keith goodbye and left the stables quickly.

At the castle, Lotor retreated at once into his rooms and shut the door. His question had been answered. That was what he had wanted, was it not? Why, then, did he still feel so strange? He paced the length of his bedroom, brow furrowed, heart pounding—why was it beating so fast? And why, through all of it, did Keith’s face remain in his mind? Unless…

Lotor halted mid-step.

Oh.

_...Oh._

 

* * *

 

Lotor knocked three times on Keith’s door in the cool of evening. He heard the scraping of chair legs on the floor, Keith’s soft footsteps. He could not stand still.

“Lotor.”

“May I come in?” Lotor asked.

“Yes,” Keith said, letting Lotor in and closing the door, “of course. But it’s late; what are you doing here?”

“This,” Lotor said, before he could lose courage, and he cupped Keith’s face with both hands and kissed him.

Lotor had never kissed anyone before—he had never seen the appeal of it. But when his lips met Keith’s, his heart stuttered. Keith’s eyes widened in surprise, then fluttered closed as he leaned into the kiss, and that was all Lotor saw. He closed his eyes and let the rest be pure feeling, from Keith’s chapped lips to Keith’s breath in his mouth to Keith’s hands sliding up his back and into his hair, making a mess of his braid.

Neither of them moved, after. The silence was so great Lotor feared Keith could hear the hammering of his heart.

“Was… was that all right?”

“Yes,” Keith whispered. “God, yes.” Without another word, he kissed Lotor again.

It was so warm.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Lotor arrived at the stable and was greeted by the sight of Keith, utterly absorbed in grooming a horse. Lotor paused for a moment, taking in the way the sunlight fell on Keith’s hair, and the slight furrow of his brow, which should not have been as endearing as it was. Warmth rose in Lotor’s cheeks as the memory of kissing Keith came back to him. He only let himself linger for a moment, though.

“Good morning.”

Keith turned around. He saw Lotor, and a smile bloomed across his face. “Good morning to you, too. Did you sleep well?”

Lotor nodded. “Very well.” And he had—better than he had slept in a long time.

“Good,” Keith said, “because we’re going on a trip today.”

“Where to?” Lotor asked, taking the satchel Keith handed him. He peeked inside, and caught a glimpse of a loaf of bread, among other things.

“It’s a surprise,” Keith said. “So stop snooping and get Ilma ready.”

“We’re taking two horses?”

“I thought that instead of a lesson, you could try riding somewhere that isn’t the corral,” Keith said. His brow furrowed. “You seem surprised. Is that all right?”

“Yes,” Lotor said. “I am just… nervous. I am not sure I can do this on my own.”

“You won’t be alone,” Keith said. “I’ll be there the whole time. And we aren’t going far. Do you trust me?”

“...Yes.” That one word spoke volumes, for trust was rare, both to give and receive, and Lotor did not dole it out freely.

“Then trust me when I say that it’s time to trust yourself.” Keith took a step forward, and took Lotor’s hand. Even after the previous night, his touch was soft—hesitant, almost. “I would not lie to you,” he said. “Please believe me when I say that you are more than capable of this.”

“All right,” Lotor finally said. “I shall try.”

Keith nodded. “Good. Let’s take the horses outside, then, and we can go.”

They left through the back—the same way they had left Daibazaal on the night they met, Lotor realized. The scenery was familiar, as was the cadence of Ilma’s walk. Keith rode beside him, on a sleek reddish mare. He kept their pace slow, and for that, Lotor was glad.

Neither of them mentioned the previous night’s kiss, though, and Lotor couldn’t parse out how he felt about that. He wanted to broach the subject; he ached to kiss Keith again. But the risk of shattering their friendship—which was still fresh and new—was too great. Even though, he reminded himself, Keith had kissed him back.

Eventually, the part of Lotor that was not so brave as he could wish won out, and he remained silent.

“It’s not far now,” Keith said after they had ridden for nearly half an hour. “Guide her to the east.”

When they reached a grouping of trees, Keith slowed his horse down. Lotor followed suit.

“Where are we?” Lotor asked as he and Keith tied the horses’ leads to a tree.

“Someplace few people know of,” Keith said, motioning for Lotor to follow him into the trees. “I come here to think, sometimes. And the wildberries are ripe at this time of year.”

Indeed they were—the clearing Keith led him to was surrounded by thick brush on nearly every side, and dotted with fruit in rich shades of purple and red. It was quiet, compared to the noise and bustle of Daibazaal, but it was not silent—birds perched in the trees and called to one another, and the wind whispered through the grass. For a moment, all Lotor could do was look.

“How many secret places do you know of?”

“They wouldn’t be secret if I told you,” Keith said with a smile. “You’ll just have to find out in due time. Pass me the satchel, would you?”

Lotor handed the bag to Keith and looked around once more at the forest. It was secluded, and miles from Daibazaal. Not a soul around for miles. “You didn’t bring me out here to dispose of me, did you?” Lotor asked, half-joking.

Keith looked up from laying a thin blanket on the ground. “You fear too much,” he said. “No one is dying today. We’re here for a picnic.” Keith sat down on the blanket, and Lotor joined him. “Bread?”

“Please,” Lotor said, for he had not yet had breakfast.

The food in Keith’s satchel was not extravagant—a loaf of bread, smoked fish, and two green apples—but it was simple and good. The bread was soft and fragrant, probably freshly baked; a nice contrast to the sweet, crisp apples and the salty fish. Lotor watched when Keith rose a few minutes later, and plucked some deep purple berries from a tree. Those, too, were sweet, and warm from the sun, and they stained the edges of Keith’s lips ever so slightly—Lotor only noticed it when he caught himself looking too closely.

They ate in silence. It was uncomfortable and unusual, given the easy friendship that had formed between them in the past several weeks. Even the birds grew quiet, as if they could sense what both men were staunchly avoiding. Lotor wished he could break through the awful silence. He did not know what to say. He never knew what to say, it seemed.

It was almost a relief when Keith blurted out, “Why did you kiss me?”

“Because I wanted to,” Lotor said, the words pouring out of him of their own accord. “You are honest, and kind, and one of the best people I ever have known. A better question would be, why did you return my affections?” It was a question Lotor had not found an answer to, yet.

“When I’m with you… you make me feel things,” Keith said. He spoke slowly, deliberately, eyes cast down. “Things that I had heard of, but never felt for anyone, until… until I met you.” He looked up. “And I don’t know if there are rules, or ways a prince should be courted, but… I want to be with you,” Keith said. “If you’ll have me.”

Lotor shook his head minutely. “I am hardly a prince. There’s a price on my head, did you know that? My own father put it there. I am damned, Keith. You’re better off without—”

“No.” Keith’s eyes shone ferociously. “You’re not damned. Don’t think for a second that someone as clever and resourceful and stubborn as yourself could ever be damned. And even if you were, that wouldn’t change how I feel.”

“...It wouldn’t?”

“No,” Keith said. “Not one bit.”

“Oh. I… I feel the same about you,” Lotor said. “I was just too afraid to act on it for the longest time. I’m afraid that trusting people is not something I’m good at. But with you… I want to try.” Lotor noticed, for the first time, the tears that were tugging at the corners of his eyes.

“That’s good enough for me,” Keith said, and his eyes were shining, too.

“I feel like a fool,” Lotor said. “I thought you would never want to be with me in that way. If I had talked to you, instead of barging in to kiss you and then leaving—”

“Then we’re both fools,” Keith said. “And we’re talking now, aren’t we?”

Lotor laughed, and it was a mess of half-formed tears and giddiness and relief. “Yes, I suppose we are.” He moved closer to Keith, their fingers brushing on the blanket. “Would you allow a fool to kiss you?”

“Mm,” Keith said, a smile spreading across his face. “Any old fool?”

“Just one.” Lotor felt his heart start to race, felt his cheeks grow warm. Keith’s face was so close to his.

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

Keith’s lips still tasted like wildberries.

 

* * *

 

The two weeks until Zarkon’s banquet with the Olkari kingdom passed quickly, far faster than Lotor had expected. He spent his days much in the same way he had before—reading in the library, learning to ride with Keith—but things were inexplicably different now. It was wonderful and strange, Lotor was learning, to have a lover.

Afternoons, Lotor found himself in the stable with Keith. There was a hayloft that Keith kept especially clean, and they spent much time there together, talking and taking respite from the sun and kissing. The kissing became more and more frequent, and Lotor couldn’t say he minded.

Kissing Keith was soft—it held all the warmth and gentleness that Keith had always shown him—but to call it chaste would have been a lie, for Keith was a forest fire disguised as a man, and there was urgency in the movement of his hands, in the press of his lips, in the nip of his teeth. Often, by the time they broke apart, Lotor found that Keith had moved halfway into his lap. And yet they never went beyond kissing—it was as if Keith could sense the heat that began to curl low in Lotor’s belly, for that was when he slid off of Lotor’s lap, kissing him on the cheek as he went, and resumed what he had been doing before. Lotor was equal parts frustrated and grateful.

“Do you ever think about… more?” Lotor asked one day when he and Keith were sitting in the hayloft.

Keith’s brow furrowed, his head tilting infinitesimally. “What do you mean?”

“More than kissing. You know…” Lotor looked to the side, down at the floor of the stable, up at the spider that had made its home in the slope of the roof—anywhere but at Keith. Such things were not proper to talk about.

Keith, though, had never pretended at propriety. “You mean fucking?”

_“Keith!”_

Keith shrugged. “I’ve thought about it,” he said. “Never done it.” He peered at Lotor, whose mouth was still slightly agape. “Do _you_ think about it?”

Lotor’s cheeks warmed. “I… yes,” he said. “Sometimes.” Sometimes when Keith was kissing him as if the world depended on it. Sometimes when the moon was high and sleep wouldn’t come. “Though I have no desire to, ah... _act on_ those thoughts. Yet.” He cleared his throat, still unable to meet Keith’s eyes.

“Then we needn’t do those things, if you don’t want to. In truth, I’m not in a hurry to do that, either.” Keith met Lotor’s eyes for a brief second before looking away. “Which isn’t to say that you aren’t attractive,” he said, words tumbling out of his mouth and cheeks flushing red. “Because you are. Very much so. I…” Keith made a frustrated noise and covered his face with his hands.

Lotor laughed softly. “I didn’t take you for someone shy.”

“‘M not shy.” Keith’s voice was muffled from behind his hands. “And you should talk, your face has been pink for the past ten minutes.”

“How would you know? You’re not looking at it now, are you? And,” Lotor said, “just so we understand each other, I know what you meant. And I… I feel the same for you.”

Keith lowered his hands from his face, at first just enough that Lotor could see his eyes, then all the way. He was still blushing, Lotor noticed, but that made two of them. It was… it was sweet. “I suppose that we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, then.”

“The bridge of fucking?”

Keith snorted. “Yes, that one, you absolute heathen.” He moved closer to Lotor and leaned into him. “I’d like to, someday.”

Lotor slung his arm around Keith’s shoulders. “As would I. But not in the imminent future.”

Keith hummed in agreement and pressed a soft kiss to Lotor’s jaw. “No,” he said. “For now, I am content with whatever you are willing to give.”

And so they carried on, spending quiet afternoons together, until Keith had to return to his duties or Lotor had to return to the palace, or both. It felt easy and right, being with Keith—the hardest part was leaving.

“The banquet is tonight, yes?” Keith murmured against Lotor’s neck the next week.

Lotor sighed. “Yes,” he said. He had found a suit of ceremonial armour in his room a few days earlier, and had hidden it away in his wardrobe immediately. Looking at it filled him with dread. The banquet was certainly a trap, but he had not yet figured out the nature of it. Staying in the hayloft with Keith was becoming increasingly tempting. He knew, though, that the consequences of missing the banquet would be far worse than whatever the dinner itself entailed. “I suppose I ought to go, or His Majesty will have my head served on a silver platter as dessert.”

Keith frowned. “You truly think that he means to have you killed?”

“I know it,” Lotor said. “Do you remember the night we met; the night I tried to flee?” Keith nodded. “I had heard talk of Zarkon sending an assassin after me. It is why I needed to leave.”

“They must have been merely rumours, then,” Keith said. “After all, you’re still alive.”

Lotor shook his head. “I’m afraid not. When we returned, there were signs that someone had been in my quarters. I doubt that he will try to kill me tonight, given that the Olkari are visiting, but Zarkon wishes me dead. Of that much, I am certain.”

Lotor climbed down from the hayloft and straightened out his clothes.

“Be careful,” Keith called.

Lotor paused in the threshold, looking back at Keith. “I will try.”

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Lotor found himself in danger of dying, though not from a blade or a poisoned goblet. No, he feared he would die from sheer discomfort and boredom—the armour, though beautiful, was hot and stiff and thoroughly unenjoyable to sit in for hours on end. And, not having been to a royal banquet since before Honerva had died, Lotor had forgotten entirely about the speeches.

God, how he hated the speeches.

The evening began innocently enough, with a short skit put on by a troupe of actors, depicting the rise of the Galra Empire. That much, Lotor could tolerate.

Half an hour into Zarkon’s speech, though, Lotor began to wonder if dying would really be such a terrible fate. Twice, he caught himself nodding off, made drowsy by the warm room and the incessant rumble of Zarkon’s voice. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep at the banquet, not while sitting at the high table for all to see. Certainly not around this many Galra, all armed with swords and eating up Zarkon’s nationalism as if it were the main course. Lotor scanned the room, but could not find even one person who appeared to be disinterested.

Finally, it ended. Lotor was not entirely sure how much time had passed by the time Zarkon sat back down. Servants began to bring out the first course from the kitchen, and the swell of chatter filled the room.

Lotor pushed his food around his plate at first, unable to rid himself of the paranoia that it had been poisoned. But when everyone else at the table began eating, he tentatively took a bite, for he had not had a meal this good in a long time. There were no traces of poison in the roast beast, nor were there in the bread or the wine. Nothing on his plate was a trap, it seemed, which was somehow even more suspicious.

Though everyone around him was talking and laughing enough to create a din, the banquet passed quietly for Lotor, for no one at the high table spoke to him. It came as no surprise. Truth be told, Lotor was relieved when Zarkon barely acknowledged his presence, choosing instead to discuss the alliance with the Olkari royal family. And so with no one to talk to, Lotor listened. The best way to gain information, in Lotor’s experience, was to listen to words not intended for one’s own ears.

Lotor knew little of the Olkari people, and what he had learned had been gleaned from maps and texts so old that the Galra archivists had forgotten about them. He knew the Olkari kingdom was near the edge of the Galra Empire’s reach—near enough to be a desirable piece of territory—and he knew that their technology was far more advanced than that of any other kingdom. Perhaps that was why Zarkon so desired them as an ally.

He did not know, however, that the Olkari king and queen had a daughter; not until the meal had ended and Zarkon approached him, and at Zarkon’s side was a young woman in a sage green dress.

“Princess Isaca,” said Zarkon, although he was looking at Lotor, “allow me to introduce you to my son, Prince Lotor.”

Lotor bowed, stiffly, and Princess Isaca curtsied in return.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said.

“Likewise,” said Lotor, and before he could say anything else, music filled the banquet hall.

“Perhaps you would like to share this dance with the Princess,” Zarkon said to Lotor.

It caught Lotor off guard, for Zarkon had never seemed to care much about Lotor’s indifference to socializing before. It was bizarre, completely out of the blue. And it was anything but a request.

So Lotor bowed again, and extended his hand, and asked, “May I have this dance, Your Highness?”

The princess smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You may,” she said, and allowed Lotor to lead her to the ballroom.

Princess Isaca was a good dancer, which made up for the fact that Lotor was not. She was close enough that Lotor could see the sharpness of her features—it was as if she had been carved out of marble—but there was enough distance between them to be proper. The distance also lessened the likelihood of Lotor stepping on Princess Isaca’s feet, which was a relief.

“You had safe travels, I trust?” Lotor asked, for he wasn’t quite sure what one was supposed to say in this situation. Keith was not one for formalities.

“Yes, thank you,” replied the princess. “We passed through some beautiful landscapes on our way here.” She was neither unfriendly nor warm, simply polite. Lotor couldn’t read her expression.

He did, however, catch Zarkon looking at him from across the room. “...Yes,” Lotor said. “We are blessed, in Daibazaal, with a beautiful countryside. I do hope that our kingdom will be to your liking.”

“I hope so too,” said Princess Isaca, “for my family and I will be staying here for quite some time.”

“Oh?” This was news to Lotor. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “I, ah… I consider it an honour to have you and your family here, Your Highness.”

The princess gave him a tight smile. “Thank you.”

It was almost comical how quickly they stepped apart when the music ended. It wasn’t that dancing with Isaca was unpleasant. It was simply… strange. A dance was something that should have felt intimate, but he had hardly known Isaca for twenty minutes. It should have felt intimate, but Lotor knew intimacy—he had come to know it with Keith—and this was but a cheap imitation. Isaca seemed relieved, too, when Lotor did not ask her for the next dance. So they parted with a cordial farewell and went their separate ways.

Lotor spent the rest of the night on the fringes of the dance floor, observing but not participating; wishing he could leave. Thrice, he caught sight of Isaca, who was dancing with a different partner each time, still wearing that polite smile like a mask.

Lotor watched as she twirled, always keeping her partner at an arm’s length. She did not want to dance with anyone at the banquet, it seemed.

Lotor couldn’t blame her. He understood the feeling.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Keith all but ran up to Lotor and wordlessly pulled him into a tight hug.

“Good morning to you, too,” Lotor said, wrapping his arms around Keith’s waist. “Is everything all right?”

Keith pressed a kiss to Lotor’s cheek. “Just glad you’re safe,” he mumbled, words muffled against Lotor’s skin.

 _He was worried_ , Lotor realized. Ironic, considering Keith’s insistence the day before that Lotor had nothing to worry about, but the realization still sent warmth through Lotor’s chest. Keith cared for him.

Lotor kissed Keith’s forehead. “You were right,” he said. “There was no cause for concern last night. The banquet was incredibly boring, actually.”

“I take it no one died?”

“Not a single person.” Lotor let Keith give him a quick peck on the lips. “For now, at least.”

“For now,” Keith agreed. “You will find a way out of this, you know.”

“I know,” Lotor said.

After another moment, Keith released him. “Shall we try galloping today? Only if you’re ready, of course.”

Lotor paused. After his fall, they had taken riding lessons much slower, focusing on control rather than speed, gradually working up to a canter. It had paid off: Lotor could now handle Ilma with at least some confidence, enough that galloping did not seem as terrifying a prospect as it once had been.

“Let’s give it a try,” Lotor said. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

They readied the horses together. It was quick work, now that Lotor’s hands were familiar with Ilma’s tack. But instead of staying in the corral, Keith opened the gate and motioned for Lotor to follow him.

“We need space to gallop,” Keith explained as he and Lotor rode into a field. “There’s not nearly enough room in the corral.”

Lotor nodded. “How does one gallop, anyway?”

“Start by going into a canter,” Keith said. Lotor did, and Keith matched his speed, riding beside him. “Now move forward in the saddle and squeeze your legs.”

As soon as Lotor did, he felt Ilma start to speed up underneath him. She was not as fast as the horse he and Keith rode the first time he tried to leave Daibazaal, but she was fast enough that the wind whipped through Lotor’s hair, and each time Ilma’s hooves connected with the ground, it was that much more jarring.

“Yes, just like that!” Keith called, and pointed at a grouping of trees. “Come on, let’s go over there!”

Twice, Lotor felt himself waver on top of Ilma, but he did not fall. Moving at such a speed was as wonderful and exhilarating and terrifying as he remembered it to be. Under the blue summer sky, feeling freer than he had in a long time, Lotor grinned and urged Ilma forward.  

“That was good,” Keith said once they had reached the trees and dismounted their horses.

“You think so?”

“I do. Perhaps we can take a day trip to the pond once you get better at galloping.”

“Oh?” Lotor absentmindedly petted Ilma’s neck and shot keith a smile. “That sounds an awful lot like you’re trying to court me.”

“Perhaps I am,” Keith replied. “Is it working?” He batted his eyelashes for emphasis, and it was such a bizarre contrast to Keith’s usual manner that Lotor couldn’t help but laugh.

“I daresay it is, considering…” Lotor trailed off, his eyes flicking down to Keith’s lips. He took a step closer to Keith. “Can I kiss you?”

“If you can catch me,” Keith retorted with a wicked grin. In one swift motion, he was back in his horse’s saddle, with the reins ready in his hands. “Race you back to the stable. Winner gets a kiss.” Without another word, he urged his horse into a gallop and took off across the plain.

Lotor didn’t win—not even close. But he found that he didn’t mind. As he pulled Keith in close and kissed him long and sweet, he thought that perhaps, just this once, losing wasn’t so bad.

 

* * *

 

Two more weeks passed by, impossibly fast. Between riding lessons with Keith and preparing for his departure, Lotor had little time for leisure. But after the arrival of the Olkari, there was even less time to be had, for Zarkon was insistent that Lotor spend time with their guests. Specifically, Princess Isaca, though the princess still seemed as loath as Lotor was to spend her days engaged in stilted, awkward pleasantries. Lotor would make a comment about the weather, and Isaca would offer a half-hearted reply, and silence would fall heavy over them once more. Every interaction took place at a respectable distance, from walking to dancing to afternoon tea. The most animated Lotor ever saw Isaca was when they strolled past the library one afternoon.

“The library is one of my favourite places,” Lotor commented, seeing the way Isaca’s eyes caught on the tall wooden shelves. “Has anyone shown it to you?”

“They have not,” Isaca said. She took the slightest step closer to the library’s door, trying to get another glance at the books.

“Then it would be my honour to give you a tour of the library,” Lotor said, “if you were so inclined.”

A hopeful look crossed Isaca’s face. “I should like to do that very much.”

Lotor gestured toward the threshold. “After you.”

Isaca did not need to be told twice. She strode into the library, skirts lifted with both hands so she wouldn’t trip, and paused in the centre of the great empty room. “This is magnificent.” She turned to look at Lotor. “Does no one use it?”

“Very few people,” Lotor replied as Isaca walked along the perimeter of the room, running her fingers across the books’ spines. “I wish I knew why. You are welcome to come here, though, any time you would like.”

Isaca smiled—a small, genuine thing—the first real smile Lotor had seen from her. “Thank you,” she said. “That means very much to me. I have missed my home’s library more than anything since I have been away.”

Lotor crossed the room, and started browsing the shelves. “You like to read?”

“Oh, yes,” Isaca said. “Especially books about the sciences.”

“I have heard of the Olkari’s affinity for the sciences,” Lotor said, “and of how advanced your technologies are.”

“My grandmother was an inventor. All I have ever wanted is to follow in her footsteps, though not everyone thinks it befitting of a princess to spend her life in a tinker’s shop.” Isaca sighed. “Would you mind if I went to retrieve my sketchbook? I have been neglecting it as of late.”

“Not at all,” Lotor said. He half-expected that Isaca would not return, and would not have been upset if she didn’t. Yet Isaca did return, with some charcoals in her hand and a thick leather-bound book tucked under her arm. She gave Lotor a nod of acknowledgement before sitting at the wooden table in the centre of the room. Lotor joined her with a book about Altea in his hand, and the two of them spent the afternoon in silence, save for the scritching of pencil on paper, and the soft noise of pages turning. It seemed to Lotor that people were like magnets, and no amount of force could bring about closeness if it was not meant to be. But when allowed space and distance, they could coexist quite happily—with Lotor reading about what Altea had been like many years ago, and Isaca engrossed in her sketches of machines—until Zarkon arrived and shattered the fragile peace.

“There you are,” came Zarkon’s gravelly voice, punctuated with heavy footsteps as he entered the library. “And Princess Isaca. Good day.” Isaca looked up from her sketchbook. “I hope I am not interrupting anything.”

Isaca offered Zarkon a smile, but it was forced, nothing like the genuine happiness Lotor had seen on her face barely an hour earlier. “No, not at all,” she said. “Prince Lotor was kind enough to show me the library. I suppose both of us got somewhat distracted.”

Zarkon stood there for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I see,” he finally said. “I shall leave you to it, then. Until dinner.”

Lotor watched as his father left, too disconcerted by Zarkon’s uncharacteristic cordiality to return to his book. He thought of Zarkon’s smile before he had left—he had looked almost like a wolf circling a rabbit, teeth bared while its prey moved along, blissfully unaware.

Lotor had no real reason to be so uneasy. Yet as the day wore on, the unease would not leave him.

He barely slept, that night.

With Zarkon monopolizing much of Lotor’s days, there was barely enough time for riding lessons, let alone to spend lazy afternoons talking with Keith or kissing him in the hayloft.

“Your galloping has improved quite a bit,” Keith said to him after they had finished riding one day. “Perhaps we could go to the pond on Sunday. We could swim, and I could pack a picnic.”

Lotor sighed. “I wish I could,” he said, “but Zarkon has requested my presence at a ball that evening.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I truly am sorry, Keith,” Lotor said. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”

“It’s all right,” Keith said, but Lotor couldn’t miss the disappointment that flickered across Keith’s face. “There’s nothing to be done. Another time, then.”

“Another time,” Lotor agreed.

It was unnerving, after years of neglect, that Zarkon was suddenly involving himself so heavily in Lotor’s life. Something about the whole affair set Lotor on edge. After a few weeks of restfulness, Lotor found himself unable to sleep. He fell back onto his old habits as quickly and easily as if he had never broken them, staying up well into the small hours of the night reading, planning, or simply staring at the ceiling, trying to convince himself that whatever strangeness he felt was unwarranted. His efforts to fall asleep were numerous, but ultimately fruitless, for this was a different strangeness than Lotor was used to; different from when the kingdom was rife with whispers of his demise. At least he had known how to react to that—with a mental map of escape routes and a knife under his pillow. But this new sense of unease—whatever its cause was—was an unknown, one that he could only face with constant vigilance; with watching and waiting late into the night.

More than once, he thought about going to Keith, but he reprimanded himself as soon as the thought crossed his mind. How selfish it would be, to wake Keith in the middle of the night, for no reason save for that he was restless and lonely. No, as tempting as the thought of lying in Keith’s arms was, Lotor couldn’t bring himself to wake him. Lotor had spent his nights awake and alone in the past, and he would do it again if that was what it took to stay alive. There was no need to steal precious hours of rest from Keith.

The insomnia grew worse as the ball drew closer. Lotor found himself only sleeping two or three hours each night, and nodding off during the day. It seemed harder than it had been in the past to go about his days while only half-awake. Spending time with Isaca was draining, almost more so than when Zarkon paraded him around like some prized animal. Even when he was alone, Lotor found himself unable to relax. These days, Lotor only felt at ease when he was with Keith.

One afternoon, before Zarkon could send for him and insist he spend tea time with Isaca, Lotor snuck off to the stables. Keith was usually finished with his chores by mid afternoon. The stable was empty when Lotor looked around, but he could hear the low hum of a now-familiar tune coming from the hayloft.

“Is there room for one more up there?” Lotor called.

The humming stopped. The hayloft creaked as Keith shuffled forward on his hands and knees, and this was familiar now, too. All of it, from Keith’s crooked smile to the way his hair fell in his eyes. “For you? Always.”

Keith had been carving before Lotor arrived—he was always working with his hands, it seemed—and he brushed the wood chips onto the floor so they could lie down. They talked for a while, about nothing in particular, and kissed a few times. Mostly, Lotor leaned his head on Keith’s shoulder and let Keith run his fingers through his hair, savouring the simple, soothing touch and the quiet and the darkness.

Lotor did not remember drifting off. But some time later—he was not sure how long—he opened his eyes and saw Keith’s upside-down face looking back at him.

“How long was I asleep?” Lotor asked. The wood of the hayloft was beginning to be very uncomfortable, but he couldn’t bring himself to move from where he lay with his lead in Keith’s lap.

“Only two hours,” Keith said quietly, pushing a stray lock of hair out of Lotor’s face. He furrowed his brow. “Why didn’t you tell me you were so tired?”

“I… I don’t know,” Lotor admitted. “I’m used to it, I suppose.”

“Lotor… people have died from lack of sleep, or else gone mad—”

Lotor sat up. “You think I’m mad?”

Keith shook his head. “I know you’re not. I only worry for you.” He looked at Lotor curiously. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

“Not much.”

“Exhaustion will leave you as dead as any knife. How long will you keep doing this before you realize you’re digging your own grave?”

There were a million thoughts and emotions swirling around in Keith’s eyes. Lotor couldn’t read them, couldn’t tell if it was concern Keith felt or pity. Or perhaps it was regret, regret that he ever became involved with a man who was damned from the start.

“You think this is my choice?” Lotor asked. “No one would choose to live like this.”

“Then why are you not sleeping?”

“I try to sleep, every night, but the castle… it does not feel safe to be there, right now,” Lotor said. “I cannot say why. But times are strange; they have been strange ever since the Olkari arrived. Zarkon is planning something, and I don’t know what—”

“What could he be planning?” Keith cut in.  “The talk of assassination has stopped. You have nothing to fear.”

“And you have only known me a few months,” snapped Lotor. “Do not presume that you know everything about my life.”

Keith did not say anything after that, only picked up the piece of wood he had been carving and took his knife to it, paring away the remainder of the bark. The silence between them threatened to swallow Lotor whole, and a part of him wanted nothing more than to leave. But to leave now would be to slam the door on the best thing that had happened to him in a very long time, and so he stayed, knees drawn to his chest, watching as Keith coaxed a wolf out of the wood. Keith wasn’t humming—the only sounds in the stable were their quiet breaths and the steady _thwick thwick thwick_ of wood chips landing on the floor.

The wolf was almost halfway finished before Keith spoke. “I can hear you thinking.” He set down his knife. “If you wish to talk, I will listen.”

“You aren’t angry?”

Keith shook his head. “Only worried that if this continues, you will get hurt again. You were right when you said I don’t know everything about your life. But I care for you,” Keith said. “I wish I could ease your mind.”

“Thank you,” Lotor said quietly. “And I am sorry I spoke so harshly to you. You were right, too. I have no proof that Zarkon is planning anything, but something doesn’t feel right. He has never given a damn about me before; why would he start now? There has to be a reason. But I do not know what it is, only that it cannot be anything good.”

Keith frowned. “And this is keeping you awake at night.”

“Yes.”

Keith hummed, and then was quiet for a moment, thinking, his fingers fiddling with the fabric of his clothes. Then he looked at Lotor and said, “Stay with me tonight.”  
“...What?”

“You fell asleep on me today,” Keith pointed out. “I should think it would be the same at night. There is no obligation, though,” he quickly added upon seeing Lotor’s surprised expression. “I understand if you would rather not—”  
“I’d like that,” Lotor said. “Very much.”

“Oh.” Light pink dusted Keith’s cheeks and nose. “I… good,” he said. “Good. I’d like that, too.”

Lotor kissed the tip of Keith’s nose, and smiled when Keith’s blush deepened.

For the first time in many months, he did not dread the night.

 

* * *

 

Lotor arrived at Keith’s cabin just as the sun was setting. As soon as Keith opened the door, he pulled Lotor in and kissed him on the lips.

“Hello to you, too,” Lotor said, smiling helplessly when they broke apart.

“Hi.” Keith smiled—shyly, almost—and took Lotor’s hand. “I did not know how many blankets you would want,” he said, and Lotor looked over at the familiar wooden bed in the corner, which was covered in a veritable mountain of wool blankets and patchwork quilts.

“I think I shall be warm enough,” Lotor said, and squeezed Keith’s hand. “It is summer, after all.”

They did not go to bed straight away; Keith made tea, and they drank it at his small wooden table. Lotor’s nerves were abuzz, and he felt silly for it. He and Keith were only going to sleep, after all. For all the kissing they had done, which was far from innocent at times—Lotor recalled the heat of Keith’s mouth on his own, coupled with Keith’s hands slipping under his shirt—this somehow seemed more intimate, more nerve-wracking. Two people did not sleep in the same bed unless they were married. It certainly wasn’t proper. But Keith had hardly given a damn about propriety for as long as Lotor had known him. And as Lotor finished the last of his tea and watched Keith pull back the blankets, Lotor decided that neither did he.

“Where are your sleeping clothes?” Keith asked.

“Oh.” Lotor blinked. “I sleep like this.”

“Even with your boots on?”

“Usually, yes.” The habit was nearly a decade old. Sleeping fully clothed was not comfortable, but it allowed for a hasty escape, if need be.

Keith seemed to understand this, for he did not press, only shrugged and said, “If it suits you.” He drew the curtains and sat down on the bed to remove his own boots and socks. Then Keith crossed the room and pulled a neatly folded stack of clothes from a basket. “I, ah.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to change.”

“Oh,” Lotor said, colour rising in his cheeks. He turned to face the wall. “Yes, of course.”

There was the soft rustle of clothes being shed and hitting the floor. Lotor kept his eyes on the wall. He tried not to imagine what the planes of Keith’s bare chest would look like, or how the lean muscles in his arms and legs would move without any fabric covering them. He tried, and failed magnificently. By the time Keith said, “You can look now,” Lotor was quite sure that his face more closely resembled a tomato than a human.

Lotor turned around. Keith was dressed in a loose shirt and pants, his feet bare against the wooden floor.

Lotor paused. Thought about it. Said, “Perhaps I will sleep without my boots tonight.”

 

* * *

 

It was intended to be a singular occurrence. But after that first night, when Lotor woke up to the low light of dawn and Keith’s arm thrown over Lotor’s side in his sleep, he hoped that the first time would not also be the last. For he and Keith were face to face, and close—so close that Lotor noticed things he had not noticed before. A sand-coloured freckle on Keith’s cheekbone, just below his eye. The way Keith’s hair fell in his face when he was not awake to tuck it behind his ear. The soft rise and fall of his breathing as he slept. It was warm, and it was safe, and it was Keith. Lotor closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the peace. It was a rare thing, these days.

He didn’t wake Keith. It was a quiet day. He could stay for a while longer before Zarkon was bound to notice his absence. Another half-hour, Lotor reasoned, couldn’t hurt.

Half an hour passed, far too quickly. Lotor slipped out of bed as gently as he could, draping the blankets back over Keith. Keith woke up anyway, and looked at Lotor with sleepy eyes.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, voice groggy.

“Yes,” said Lotor. “I should not like Zarkon to find me missing when he wakes up.”

“Mm.” Keith stretched and combed a hand through his messy hair. “I understand.” He sat up. “Did it work, sleeping here?”

“Yes,” Lotor said truthfully. “Very much so.”

“Good,” Keith said. “Will you stay tonight, too?”

“Yes,” Lotor said. “And the night after that, and the night after that, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Well, you don’t snore, so I suppose I’ll have you indefinitely,” Keith said with a crooked smile.

Lotor returned his smile. “Will you, now.”

Keith let out a short huff of a laugh, more breath than anything else. He was beautiful and rumpled and soft and strong, and all of a sudden Lotor was struck by the desire to wake up next to him every morning. “Only if you give me a kiss before you go.”

Lotor gave him two.

 

* * *

 

On the morning of the ball, Lotor woke up with Keith pressed against his back, his arms and legs curled around Lotor like vines.

“Good morning,” Keith mumbled, and pressed a soft kiss to Lotor’s shoulder. “My love.”

A smile crept onto Lotor’s face. “Good morning,” he said, and turned in Keith’s arms. “Shall we go to the pond today?”

Keith’s brow furrowed. “I thought the ball was tonight.”

“It is,” Lotor replied. “But it does not begin until after sunset. I just need to clear my head in the meantime.”

And so after a few moments, they rose, and Keith packed a simple breakfast into his satchel, and they retrieved the horses and left. They did not go to the faraway pond—“There is no time,” Keith had said—but a small nearby creek that Lotor had never seen before. It was beautiful, which came as no surprise. Keith had a great knowledge and appreciation of beautiful places, and this was but one of many.

“I have been thinking,” Lotor said when he and Keith sat down on the bank on the creek, sharing their breakfast of grainy bread and wild fruit, “of Altea.”

“Altea?” Keith looked at Lotor. “What of it?”

“When I leave Daibazaal, I might like to live there, if only for a short time. It seems… peaceful. My mother was Altean,” Lotor added, upon seeing Keith’s bewildered expression.

“Oh,” Keith said. “I did not know.”

“Really?” Lotor asked. “How did you not know? It seems that is all the kingdom talks about, sometimes—the weakling Altean prince.”

“You are not weak,” Keith said, fierceness spiking his voice before disappearing. “And I did not grow up here. There is much about Daibazaal that I do not know.” He took a sip from the waterskin, and then offered it to Lotor. “My mother was Galran. I never got to know her; she left before I was old enough to walk.”

“And your father?”

“He was from a small kingdom to the north called Terra,” Keith said. “He’s the one who taught me to ride. But he died when I was thirteen.”

Lotor took Keith’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite all right.” Keith rubbed his thumb over Lotor’s knuckles and gave him a sad smile. “Besides, we match. Mixed blood.”

“You are one of the only people I’ve known who does not see that as a weakness,” Lotor said. “Do you know that?”

“I do,” Keith said, “and I wish it was not true. It seems there are so many doors in this kingdom that only open for Galra. I tried to join the Royal Guard when I was seventeen, but they turned me away; said I was ‘not Galra enough’. Whatever that means.” Keith picked up a pebble and threw it into the creek, where it landed with a splash. “I despise this kingdom. For all it is worth—even for how much I will miss you when you’re gone—I hope you can leave soon.”

For so long, Lotor had hoped for the very same thing—a swift escape in the middle of the night, free of repercussions, never to set foot in Daibazaal again. But that was before he had something to stay for.

That was before he knew Keith.

Tears welled up in Lotor’s eyes. His throat constricted. Speaking hurt. “I wish I did not have to go.”

“I know,” Keith said, and leaned his head against Lotor’s chest. Twin tears rolled down Lotor’s face and landed in soft dark hair. “I know.”

As fate would have it, the most wonderful realizations seem to come at the cruelest times—for it was then that Lotor realized—“I love you.”

Keith looked up at him with shiny eyes, and ghosted two fingers over Lotor’s lips. “I know that, too. And,” he said, before Lotor’s brow could furrow with doubt, “I know that I love you. Wherever you may be.”

Somehow, it only made the prospect of leaving Daibazaal that much worse.

They whiled away the morning together, and much of the early afternoon. Keith told Lotor of his memories of Terra, and Lotor told him of Honerva. All of Lotor’s memories of her were blurred with time and tinged with sadness. But they were good memories still—soft, capable hands tucking him into bed; clear nights under a blanket of stars; a warm embrace that dwarfed his five-year-old body and rendered him safe from all harm—even though they were so distant they felt like a dream.

“Do you miss her?” Keith asked when they rode back to the castle.

“Yes,” said Lotor, and even though he had hardly known Honerva, it was every bit the truth.

 

* * *

 

When Lotor returned to the castle, there was a stranger in his room, their silhouette outlined by the setting sun. Without thinking, his hand went to the hilt of his dagger—only it wasn’t a stranger, but a suit of the finest armour Lotor had ever seen, propped up on a wooden stand in the corner. It was the kind of armour to be worn to a banquet or ball, not into battle. The leather chestplate was so soft, the designs so intricate, that wearing it in any kind of fight would be a death sentence.

There was a knock at the door: an attendant, sent to help Lotor prepare. Lotor did not turn him away, for all the laces and straps of the armour were too much to fasten on one’s own. Wordlessly, the attendant helped Lotor into the armour. He stood still and silent as the attendant did his job, but when he held out a comb to fix Lotor’s hair, Lotor shook his head.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

The attendant bowed. “Of course.”

After the attendant left, Lotor wove his hair into a long braid. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he was taken aback—for the man staring back at him looked nothing like a weakling, a disappointment, a soon-to-be runaway. He more like a prince than he ever had, and would ever look again. Lotor frowned. The man in the mirror, tall and strong and regal, frowned back. He truly did look the part of a prince. Lotor did not know how that made him feel. He did know, though, that the braid would have looked better if it were done by Keith’s hands.

The ball did not begin until after sunset. Lotor remained in his room, his stomach tying itself in knots all the while. For all of the kingdom’s excitement and preparation, it couldn’t be an ordinary ball like the ones Lotor had grown used to attending since the Olkari’s visit began. No, this one was different—the ballroom was full to bursting with people, almost as if the entire kingdom had come. Everyone who could afford to do so had dressed more lavishly than ever. And most notably, Zarkon acknowledged Lotor’s presence at the high table.

“Good evening.”

“Father,” Lotor replied curtly. “Tell me, what is the occasion for all of this?”

“You needn’t concern yourself with such things,” said Zarkon dismissively. “Dance with Princess Isaca. Drink some wine. Do what a prince is supposed to do, for once.”

As if Lotor had ever been given the chance to do that before.

“Very well,” said Lotor, and got up from the table. As he walked into the crowd in search of Isaca, whispers surrounded him. Thrice, he heard his own name being uttered under someone’s breath, though he did not hear the words that followed.

After a few excruciating moments, Lotor caught sight of Isaca across the room, wearing a fine dark blue dress, her flax-coloured hair woven and pinned into a serpent’s nest of braids.

“Princess Isaca!” he called. She turned, startled expression softening slightly at the sight of Lotor. “Would you care to dance?”

Isaca nodded, and took Lotor’s outstretched hand. She led them through two dances, the music slow enough to hold a conversation. “It’s a very lavish party tonight,” Isaca commented.

Lotor cast a glance around the room, taking in the rich food and the larger-than-usual group of musicians. “Indeed. And strange, considering that there doesn’t appear to be an occasion for it.”

Isaca frowned. “Very strange.” But they did not have a chance to talk any more, for the music turned fast and lively. Lotor didn’t know the steps. But Isaca simply said, “Follow my lead,” and took his hand, guiding him through the next two dances.

It wasn’t as strange to dance with Isaca as it once was. After the afternoon in the library, something had taken root—friendship, Lotor realized—and it was manifesting in clumsy dance steps and shared laughter, in a growing feeling of familiarity. At the end of the second dance, Lotor gave Isaca an exaggerated bow. “You dance divinely,” he said.

Isaca covered up her laugh with a gloved hand. “Thank you,” she said. “I wish I could say the same for you.”

In that moment, cheeks aching from laughter, Lotor had almost forgotten about the ball.

Almost.

It was then that the delicate clinking of metal on glass cut through the chatter like a knife. Zarkon stood at the high table, goblet in hand. Beside him, the Olkari king and queen.

“Your attention, please,” Zarkon called, though it was unnecessary. The room had long since fallen silent. “I have an announcement to make.”

“Do you know what this is?” Lotor whispered to Isaca.

She shook her head. “I wish I did. It seems very strange. I don’t think I have ever seen your father look so… optimistic.”

“Nor have I.”

“For these past months,” Zarkon said, his voice booming through the ballroom, “the Olkari have been our distinguished guests, staying here in the hopes of forging an alliance between Daibazaal and Olkarion.”

“Perhaps it is merely a trade agreement,” said Isaca.

“Perhaps,” Lotor said, but somehow, he doubted it.

“I am pleased to announce that we have finally come to an agreement,” Zarkon continued. “The Galra and the Olkari will become each other’s closest allies, in peace and war, in times both difficult and prosperous. Our alliance will come into being with joy and celebration… and with the marriage of Princess Isaca of Olkari,” Lotor looked at Isaca, and saw her eyes go wide with shock, “and my son, Prince Lotor.”

All around him, the room exploded with cheers and celebration, but Lotor’s world narrowed to a point, his future snatched from his hands. Across the room, he caught Zarkon’s eye.

_No._

 

* * *

 

“How long have you known of this?” Isaca’s voice was hot and angry, a sharp contrast to the chill night air. “Since we met? Longer?”

“I knew nothing of it until tonight,” Lotor said. “I swear.”

“Why should I believe that?” Isaca’s gaze was piercing, and in the low light, Lotor could barely make out the glint of indignant tears. “Why should I trust you, when I cannot even trust my own parents?”

“I…”

“I don’t want this,” Isaca said, so quiet that Lotor almost missed it. “I have never wanted marriage. All I have ever wanted was to be free.”

“I know,” Lotor said. “I feel the same. I swear to you, Isaca, this wasn’t my doing.”

For a long time after that, there were only the distant sounds of the party. Isaca did not say anything, but she did not leave the courtyard, either.

Admittedly, an arranged marriage was a better fate than death. If the alliance with the Olkari depended on Lotor’s betrothal to Isaca, he would be safe from Zarkon’s assassins. But it was not the fate Lotor wanted—he wanted safety, a life with Keith, true freedom—and there was no telling how long the assassins would hold off. After all, a widowed princess would keep her title. If he were killed after the wedding, Lotor realized, the alliance would still stand. He was nothing but a pawn to Zarkon, disposable and weak.

But if he were to leave before the wedding took place… Lotor felt, for the first time in a long time, a glimmer of hope. For months, he had been preparing to leave Daibazaal, waiting for the time to be right, for his skills to be sharp. The thought of finally leaving sent a thrill of fear through Lotor—and a pang of sadness at the thought of leaving Keith—but what awaited him if he stayed was far worse. He couldn’t delay this any longer.

“They will send someone for us before long,” Isaca said.

“Then I ought to leave before they do,” replied Lotor. “After all, there can’t be a wedding with only one person.”

Isaca turned to look at him. “No,” she said slowly, “there can’t be.” A smile began to spread across her face. “You are leaving tonight?”

“I don’t know. Soon.”

“Well,” Isaca said, “may you have a swift horse and safe travels.”

“Thank you,” Lotor said. “I hope that you find freedom, no matter where you are.”

Isaca sighed. “I hope so too. Now go,” she said. “Before it is too late.”

There was nothing left to say.

Lotor went.

 

* * *

 

He found himself on Keith’s doorstep, the path familiar after traveling it so many times. Keith answered after the third knock.

“Lotor.” His eyes were groggy, his hair disheveled from sleep. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Lotor replied. “I… Zarkon just announced to the entire kingdom that Princess Isaca and I are to marry. I have to leave, Keith. Soon.”

“Oh.” Keith’s face fell. “How soon?”

It would be prudent, Lotor knew, to leave within the hour. And maybe, no matter how much Lotor had tried to fight it—no matter how hard he had tried to prove his father wrong—maybe Zarkon had been right about him. For if all it took to melt his resolve was Keith, maybe he was weak after all.

“In the morning,” Lotor decided, knowing that the morning light would surely give him away. “I will leave before dawn.”

“Okay,” Keith said. “Before dawn.”

He did not know when, exactly, Keith started kissing him—only that when they broke apart, it wasn’t enough. He pulled Keith closer, felt Keith’s lips press against his neck, his jaw, the space behind his ear. This, then, was the feeling people talked about—the fire blooming in the pit of his stomach, the feeling that crackled beneath his skin like lightning wherever Keith’s hands touched him.

If this was their last night together, Lotor wanted to make it count. Even if it would make leaving that much more painful.

“Keith,” he murmured. The kisses on his neck stopped.

“What is it?”

“I want you,” he said, plain as anything, as if there were nothing complicated about the situation, as if he wouldn’t be vanish with the moon. “Will you…” Lotor took a deep breath. Strange, how it was more difficult than almost anything to say the words. “Do you want to go to bed?”

Keith kissed him in response, long and deep and sweet, winding his hands into Lotor’s hair, ruining the half-hearted braid. “Yes,” he said, “a thousand times _yes_.” And he kissed Lotor again, both of them stumbling blindly toward Keith’s bed until Keith landed on top of Lotor, straddling his hips and gazing down at him with so much adoration that Lotor didn’t trust himself not to cry.

There were three things Lotor thought he knew about sex—that it was only for newlyweds on their wedding nights, cheeks flushed from drinking as they sealed an irrevocable contract.

He knew sex was a torrid affair, equivalent to sin—it was what the church had told him all his life—and after all, how could something so vulgar be good?

But most of all, Lotor knew that when two people got into bed, one of them would get out with a limp. He had heard stories—not many, but enough. Enough to know that sex was supposed to hurt. Enough to know that someone always came out of it worse for the wear.

But he had never known what to do with Keith—not with his earnestness, not with his forwardness. It would have been unbecoming of any other person, but with his hair mussed and his shirt half-undone, Keith looked nothing short of beautiful. And Lotor certainly didn’t know what to do when Keith settled between his legs, one hand resting on Lotor’s bare stomach, and murmured, “Let me make you feel good.” The words ghosted over Lotor’s skin and dissipated into the darkness.

And it was then that Lotor realized that he knew nothing—nothing at all.

For he and Keith were not newlyweds, or even betrothed. No wine muddled Lotor’s senses, and he was glad, for this was something he wanted to remember, especially since their first night together would also be their last. Keith’s hands moved down Lotor’s thighs, then between them. Lotor shivered.

“How are you?” Keith asked, hands stilling. “Should I stop?”

Lotor shook his head. “Keep going,” he said. “Please.”

Sex with Keith was not a wildfire burning hot and fast with want, like Lotor had heard whispers of. Nor did it feel like taking the first step into hell, as promised by the church. It was a candle burning low, and it was soft touches and softer gasps, and once, Lotor swore he felt Keith’s hands tremble as they ran over his skin and tugged off his pants. Keith was nervous, too.

Lotor waited for the pain, but it didn’t come.

“Aren’t you…”

Keith stopped kissing the inside of Lotor’s thighs, and looked up.

“Aren’t you going to…”

“Aren’t I going to what?” Keith asked.

“To… you know,” Lotor said. His cheeks burned. Suddenly he couldn’t look at Keith. “Inside.”

Keith’s face flushed. “I… oh. That. Do you… want me to?”

Lotor bit his lip. Shook his head. “I’m sorry—”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” Keith took Lotor’s hand, intertwining their fingers. Lotor looked at him, and his eyes were not dark with lust or anything else Lotor had heard of. “We will stop, if you wish to. But there is more than one way to do this.”

“...I don’t want it to hurt.” If not for the darkness hiding his expression, Lotor would have been embarrassed by how small his voice was. How afraid.

“I won’t hurt you,” Keith said. “Not ever. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Lotor didn’t hesitate, for he always had.

And as Keith’s lips moved across his stomach and down, down, down, Lotor had never been so glad to be wrong.

After, Keith curled up close to him, half of his body on the bed and half draped across Lotor. He was like a furnace in Lotor’s arms, still so warm even after their heartbeats had slowed back down. Keith’s eyes were closed, his breathing a steady rise and fall.

Lotor pressed a kiss to the crown of Keith’s head. “I wish things were different,” he said. Quietly, so as not to wake Keith. “I wish I did not have to leave.” He closed his eyes, ignoring the tears that prickled at his lashes. “I’ll miss you like nothing else, my love.”

The blankets shifted as Keith stirred. He was awake, Lotor realized. “Lotor.”

“It’s all right,” Lotor whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“I never was asleep,” Keith replied. “I just… You don’t need to go alone.” In the darkness, Lotor could just barely make out the way Keith worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “If you wanted, I could come with you.

“I want that,” Lotor said. “More than anything, I want to start a life with you. A real life. But I could never ask you to leave your life behind for my sake.” He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from in front of Keith’s face. “That would be unfair to you.”

“It isn’t, though,” Keith said. “You aren’t asking me—I am choosing this for myself. I am choosing you, Lotor, if you’ll have me.”

“...Oh.”

“Is that a yes?” Keith whispered.

“Yes.” The word left Lotor’s lips as easily as a breath of air. “Yes.”

“Then we will leave at dawn,” Keith said. “Did you have any place in mind?”

Without hesitation: “Altea.”

 

* * *

 

The morning air was crisp and cool, nipping at Lotor’s ears and fingertips as he crept through the fields toward the palace. No one had noticed him when he snuck inside with a satchel clutched in his hand, taking bread from the kitchen and his three favourite books from the library and maps from his room. It was his last time in the palace, and he drifted through it unnoticed, like a ghost.

He walked past a sword that hung on the wall as he left—a beautiful silver broadsword, with an intricately carved grip and edges that glinted sharp in the pale morning light. The very same sword that he had held with trembling hands at twelve years old. The same sword that had rendered him weak in his father’s eyes, that had taken his future, that had taken countless lives—but never at his hands.

Lotor paused and looked at the sword for the briefest moment—it was, objectively, very beautiful—and he carried on his way. It did not sadden him to leave it behind—the sword, yes, but the kingdom, too—for Lotor had no love for Daibazaal. And it had no love for him.

He did have love, though, for a certain man with dark hair and violet eyes and a heart as true and constant as the night sky. And that man was waiting by the kingdom's back gate with two horses and a crooked smile, which only widened when Lotor broke into a run towards him.

“Are you ready?” Keith asked, as Lotor climbed into Ilma’s saddle and took hold of the reins.

“As I’ll ever be,” Lotor replied, and it was the truth. For all the nervousness and doubt lingering in his mind, the time had come to leave Daibazaal. He leaned over, and took Keith’s hand, squeezing once before letting go.

Keith smiled. “Then let’s go.”

When Lotor was twenty-two years old, he found himself doing many strange things—running from Daibazaal, only to return; climbing onto horses, only to fall off; meeting a princess, only to run from a marriage. But perhaps strangest of all, Lotor met a stablehand, only to fall in love.

“Yes,” he said, and took a deep breath, looking out at the horizon where Altea awaited. “Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought of this story, so feel free to leave a comment or come chat with me on [tumblr](extremegraphicviolins.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> Many thanks are in order: to YukiYamino, who I really enjoyed working with on this project. You can find the art they made for this fic [here](http://yukiyamino.tumblr.com/post/179860779655/here-is-my-piece-for-extremegraphicviolins-s) on tumblr! And thank you to my friends, who listened to all my crazy ideas and helped me find the excitement to put those ideas into words, especially when writing this fic seemed like a never-ending process. You guys are rock stars!


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